


i count the hours you come round again

by reindeerjumper



Category: Bridget Jones (Movies), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Tension, Chemist au, Diary/Journal, F/M, Slow Burn, Texting, pharmacy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28907028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/pseuds/reindeerjumper
Summary: bridget works in boots as a chemist. mark is a semi-regular customer. daniel is an ex that keeps popping up. tom is a little shit.
Relationships: Daniel Cleaver/Bridget Jones, Mark Darcy/Bridget Jones
Comments: 59
Kudos: 20





	1. december

**Author's Note:**

> so, i started this fic two years ago, and just recently stumbled back on it. i picked it back up because i couldn't remember where i was going with it, but i think i have a pretty good direction now. not sure how many sections it will pan out to, but it amuses me, so hopefully it will amuse you, too :) also, most of the pop culture references are from when i started writing it, so if things seem weirdly dated, that's why. not brit-picked, but i tried my best.

_ Winter _

One of Bridget’s favorite perks that came with her job was people watching. She always said that you could learn a lot about a person based on what they bought at the chemist, and working at the Boots nestled between Borough Market and Holland Park served for some interesting considerations. 

For one, there was the young, hungover residents of Borough Market on their way to work. They always popped in during her early shifts, circles under their eyes and bottles of paracetamol clutched in their hands like they were rubies. She always tried to suppress a smirk at their forlorn attitudes, secretly thankful that it wasn’t her in their place but also a bit resentful at not being able to partake in whatever good time put them in their position.

On the other end of the spectrum was the stay-at-home mums from Holland Park, pushing prams with one or two kids hanging out of them while they absentmindedly looked at packets of nappies. Bridget always wondered what they’d be doing if they didn’t have an entire brood to look after, and she always tried to give them sympathetic smiles as they checked out, although they were never usually returned. 

Then there were the rare moments--the ones that afforded Bridget’s imagination a plethora of options--that left her ravenous for more information. 

He came in on a blustery December day, and Bridget’s eye was immediately drawn to him. She nudged Tom underneath the counter, tilting her head in his direction, and Tom let out a long, low whistle. The sound snatched the man’s attention, and both Bridget and Tom had to quickly look away.

After a few moments, Bridget allowed herself to look back in his direction. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and bundled up in a wool overcoat and scarf that she assumed was cashmere. He didn’t look like someone making his way from Borough Market. He looked more like the spouses of the stay-at-home mums, the ones who occasionally popped in to purchase a gift voucher for their wives after they’d pissed them off. 

From behind the safety of the counter, Bridget watched as he rummaged through the Christmas section. He had three rolls of sensible red and green wrapping paper tucked under his arm, and he was contemplating two different boxes of holiday cards in his hands. She watched with interest as his brow furrowed in concentration. The fairy lights from the Christmas display would probably halo him in angelic light if it weren’t for the fluorescent bulbs above them. 

She found herself leaning on the counter, one elbow and hand propping up her chin as the other absentmindedly picked at the fabric of her sleeve. There was something about the man that she was obscenely drawn to--his height, the mop of well groomed curls on top of his head, the way his hands completely engulfed the box of cards he held--and she was so lost in her admiration for him that she didn’t anticipate him turning towards her.

_ Fuck. _

Quickly, she rearranged herself behind the counter and tried to compose herself. She busied herself with neatly fixing a stack of papers next to the register, willing the flush on her cheeks to go away as she heard Tom snicker behind her. 

The man approached the counter, balancing the rolls of wrapping paper under his arm and the box of cards in his hand. He placed them in front of Bridget, neatly lining them up before leaning down to grab a plain chocolate bar and a packet of cinnamon gum. Bridget tried smiling at him, but she was sure it looked more like a pained grimace. The man gave her a tight lipped smile in return, the sentiment never reaching his eyes.

“Hello,” she said, grabbing the chocolate bar off the top of the stack.

“Hello,” he replied, tapping his fingers on the counter. He had a voice that rolled straight off his chest, all honeyed gravel and proper, clipped tones.

An awkward silence filtered in the space between them, the only sound being the beep from the register as she scanned each item. The man wasn’t even attempting to look at her. Instead, he was occupied with his phone, or kept awkwardly glancing behind him. 

“Getting ready for the holidays?” Bridget said, attempting to make small talk with the man.

The only response was a low hum of acknowledgement in his throat. She considered it a point, though, since he finally met her gaze. His eyes were liquid amber.

“Spending it in the city?” she continued. 

“Yes,” he replied, his fingers once again tapping the counter.

“Do you live nearby?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. Very nice.” Bridget let the awkward silence hang between them before forging on. “I do, too.” 

The man smiled and nodded, the smile once again not reaching his eyes.

_ For being bloody gorgeous, you sure are an arsehole. _

“Would you like to get a flu vaccine today?” she asked as the monotonous beep of the register continued in the background. 

At this, the man snorted. “Oh, god no. I’m fine.”

Bridget felt heat creep under her collar at his abruptness. 

“Well, that will b e  £12.57,” Bridget said, sliding the packet of gum into the bag along with the rest of the man’s purchases.

She watched as he pulled an expensive looking leather wallet out of his back pocket. He flipped it open and pulled out a card, casually handing it to her without making eye contact. Bridget took it from him and glanced down at it before swiping.

_ Mark F. Darcy  _ was the name in raised type along the bottom.

_ So the arsehole has a name. _

She swiped the card, her hand absentmindedly waiting for the receipt to be spit out. It loudly was ejected from the register, and she ripped it neatly away from the roll before handing it to him along with his card.

“Have a happy holiday,” she said warmly.

“You too,” he replied, not looking up. He turned from the register without another glance back and made his way out of the store.

“Wanker,” she muttered under her breath. “I hope you get the flu.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” she heard Tom say before her. “You  _ do _ work as a pharmacist.”

_ Fuck. _

\---

_ December 15, 2018 _

_ Weight: One word: holidays _

_ Cigarettes: 10 _

_ Alcohol Units:  _ _ SEVERAL _

_ Calories: I refuse to write it _

_ There’s a rather good chance that I’ve met the most beautiful man in the whole of London. He’s a raging arsehole, but that’s besides the point. Truly, I have never seen a man with such a gorgeous bottom. Well, I assume it was gorgeous...he was wearing a rather long coat. But if the rest of his body matches his face, I’m quite confident that I’m right in my thinking.  _

_ The best part? His name is Mr. Darcy. Imagine! Mr. Darcy! Certainly explains his being a churlish arse. Quite curious now about how he’d look in a wet shirt… _

_ Sadly he’s probably married to some Holland Park stick insect who does yoga and regularly brunches with a distant member of the Royal Family. I didn’t notice a ring, but he’s probably the type to slip it into his pocket while he’s away from his wife.  _

_ Of course Tom noticed my tongue lolling out of my mouth. Won’t hear the end of it, I’m sure. Luckily I’ve never seen him before today, so it was probably just a fluke. Passing through quaint little Borough Market on a whim, soiling himself by rubbing elbows with us plebs.  _

_ I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d love to rub more than just elbows with him, but this is always how it goes. Gorgeous man appears, gorgeous man is married, gorgeous man is never seen again. Even Tom had something to say about him, and you know how picky he is (“Good lord, Bridgeline, I didn’t think there was anyone out there hotter than Daniel, but that man takes the cake!”) _

_ Speaking of Daniel, Tom told me he saw him in the store the other day. Thank GOD I wasn’t in. I know we broke up months ago, and I suppose it ended as amicably as it could have, but that’s a run-in I’d rather avoid. I’m so desperate at this point that I probably can’t be trusted around him. Lord knows he can’t be trusted either. We’d probably end up shagging in the stock room. _

_ Again. _

\---

It was a week after New Year’s when he reappeared. 

Bridget was filing paperwork behind the counter while Tom perched across from her, flipping through a gossip rag. 

“Can you  _ believe  _ Prince Harry is marrying that American?” Tom said sadly, holding the tabloid up to give Bridget a better look at the photo. 

“Of course I can,” she replied, placing another stapled packet of paper on top of the pile. “She’s drop dead gorgeous. I know you’ll be in mourning for a few weeks, but I think you’ll survive.”

Their conversation was cut short, however, by an abrupt, loud string of coughs from the counter.

Bridget lifted her eyes to where the offending sound was coming from, and immediately felt her palms start to sweat.

The man from before Christmas-- _ Mark Darcy,  _ she reminded herself--was standing at the counter with a pile of things. He looked completely opposite to the cool, calm, collected heartthrob that had purchased wrapping paper and chocolate just a month ago. 

Instead of the wool overcoat and sharply pressed trousers, he was now wearing a pair of track bottoms and a t-shirt that had the neck slightly stretched out. The zip-up hoodie he was wearing underneath a puffer coat looked like he had been sleeping in it, and his eyes were smudged with dark purple circles. He had at least a day’s worth of stubble on his chin, and as he swallowed, Bridget watched his Adam’s apple bob with the effort.

Wiping her hands on the front of her smock, she made her way to the register.

“Hello,” she said, eyeing the pile of at-home remedies in front of her.

“Hello,” he replied, congestion and gravel knocking about his voice.

Bridget started to sift through the pile of things he had dumped onto the counter. There was nasal spray, a box of menthol lozenges, Lemsip, a box of cold and flu relief tablets, three boxes of tissues, a tub of Vicks VapoRub, a bottle of immune defence tablets, a bottle of milk of magnesia, and a tube of camomile and lavender scented shower gel.

“I hear this bout of flu is the worst yet,” she said as she started to scan the items.

“It’s not the flu,” he replied, bracing himself with both hands against the counter.

Bridget picked up the cold and flu relief and shook it. “Sure about that?”

Without lifting his head, he looked at her through the fringe of lashes that framed his eyes. She could see they were glassy from sickness and lack of sleep. 

“It’s just a cold,” he continued. “I must have...picked it up over the holidays.” He coughed into the crook of his arm. 

“Body aches?” 

“Yes."

“Congestion?”

“Clearly.”

“Fever?”

“What is this, the bloody Inquisition?”

“I just figured I would help you out if I could. I  _ am _ a chemist after all.” Bridget could feel her eyebrows raise indignantly as she tried to compose her features. She continued to scan the items on the counter in front of her, trying not to look at him.

After a beat, he said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Being rude,” he replied. She now looked at him, and he scrubbed a large hand across the stubble on his chin. “I haven’t been sick in a very long time, and it isn’t sitting well with me.”

“Maybe you should have taken me up on the vaccine offer,” she muttered, running the bar code of the Lemsip across the scanner.

He didn’t respond to her, just simply set his jaw. 

“I suppose you’re right,” he said eventually.

Bridget smirked as she bagged the last of the items.

“Look. I’m not trying to be a know-it-all. You have most of what you need right here, although I usually include a stack of magazines and maybe a Jaffa cake if I’m feeling really low.” At this, she saw the smallest hint of a smirk on his lips. Despite his utterly miserable demeanor, the upturn of the corner of his mouth made her heart flutter. “The only real recommendation I can give you is lots of rest and make sure you stay hydrated.”

Mark nodded quickly, pushing himself off of the counter to stand up straight. 

“I have some paperwork that I brought home, so that will keep me busy,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his trackie bottoms to extract his wallet.

“Rest,” Bridget said with emphasis, giving him her best glare. “Work can wait.”

“Not when you’re in the field that I’m in.” He pulled his card out of the wallet and handed it over to her, the slightest brush of his fingertip against hers. The contact made the hair on her arms stand up. “What’s the damage?”

“£60.01.”

“Bloody hell. I really need to start keeping this stuff on hand.”

Bridget ran his card through the machine before handing it back to him. Inelegantly, she tried to grab all of the carrier bags at once and hand them over. At the same time, he reached out and ended up grabbing her hand instead of the handles. Once again, Bridget felt her body cover in goosebumps at the feel of his palm against the back of her hand.

“Well, Mr. Darcy,” she said, clearing her throat, “I hope you feel better.”

A befuddled look crossed his features before he nodded and said, “Thanks.” She watched as he looked at her name tag. “Thanks, Bridget.”

“No problem.”

As she watched Mark walk away from the counter, she absentmindedly took two pumps of hand sanitizer from the bottle next to the register.

_ He really does have a gorgeous bottom. _

From somewhere behind her, a low voice growled into her ear, “You saucy little minx.” Bridget jumped and let out a small yelp that caused Mark to look back towards her. She gave him an awkward little wave while simultaneously kicking Tom in the shin. Mark nodded in her direction and then exited the store.

“You absolute  _ wanker!” _ she hissed, giving Tom a shove.

“Don’t blame me, Bridge,” he said with a grin. “I’m only stating an observation.”


	2. april

_Spring_

April in England erupted on a brilliant, sunny day. Bridget found herself leaning against the counter, her hand cradled in her chin as sun poured in through the big glass windows at the front of Boots. Now that the weather was nicer, things had started to slow down in the chemist section of the store. She knew it’d only be a matter of weeks before people would be staggering in for some kind of hayfever relief, but for now, they were enjoying the sunshine while she was trapped inside of the building.

It was boring sitting behind the counter, watching the door as if willing someone to walk through. 

To help stave off the blandness, Bridget walked around the front of the counter and grabbed a magazine from the display. On the front cover was a picture of Mariah Carey with the words, “MY BATTLE WITH BIPOLAR DISORDER”. Shrugging, Bridget resettled onto the stool behind the counter and flipped it open.

She was about halfway through the article when she heard someone clearing their throat on the other side of the counter.

“One moment,” she mumbled, grabbing a Post-It note to stick it on the page where she was.

“Take your time,” said a familiar man’s voice.

Looking up, Bridget realized it was Mark. 

“Oh, hello,” she said.

“Hello.”

She hadn’t seen him since his bout of flu a few months back. He looked much better now, with the sunlight diffused behind him and the rings of purple no longer shadowing his eyes. In fact, he looked incredibly hot, but she didn’t want to admit it. He had on a white button-down with the top button flicked open, and a pair of blue chinos. His hair was once again beckoning her to dig her fingers in it and give it a good, healthy tug. 

“Erm,” she said, realizing she had been staring. “What can I do for you?”

“I actually need a vaccination,” Mark replied. “I’ll be heading to Jerusalem this weekend for work, and I was advised to get a cholera vaccination.”

Bridget unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth.

 _Jerusalem? Phwoar. Maybe he’s in the Doctor’s Without Borders program._ She thought about the last time she saw him. _Mmm, maybe not. Although he’s cocky enough to be a doctor._

“Um, yeah, sure. Just, give me a moment, yeah?” 

Disappearing into the back of the pharmacy, Bridget prepared the syringe while daydreaming about what other things Mark could be doing in Jerusalem. 

_Maybe he’s a business mogul._ The idea of him in a suit and tie, making important decisions and going to business dinners in tuxedos made her palms sweat. _Ohh, or maybe he’s a pilot._ The Mile High Club immediately popped into her mind and she felt herself blush. _Is he in Parliament?_ She chanced a glance back towards the counter--he was absentmindedly scrolling through his phone, his shoulders relaxed. _I really need to start paying better attention to the news._ The snap of the gloves against her wrists brought her back to reality.

Bridget approached where he was standing and said, “Alright, all ready. Follow me?” 

Mark looked up and stowed his phone in his pocket. He held out a hand, gesturing for her to go first, so Bridget walked out from behind the counter and over to the curtained off area that they used for vaccinations. 

The area was small and close, barricaded from the rest of the store for privacy purposes and held a small table and a single chair. Bridget stopped out front of the entrance and looked toward Mark.

“After you,” she said. “I’ll need you to, um, remove your shirt.” At this, Mark gave her a quizzical look. His brow furrowed and his jaw set, and Bridget could feel the butterflies in her stomach rioting. “You know...to, um, administer the vaccination,” she continued on. 

Mark nodded curtly before he started to undo the rest of the buttons on his shirt. Bridget was so enthralled by his fingers swiftly moving over the cotton she didn’t even have time to tell him that he could step into the privacy cubicle. By the time her brain finally reconnected to her mouth, his shirt was sliding off of his arms and being expertly caught by the fingertips she couldn’t stop staring at. 

“Oh,” she said in a soft, strangled voice. “Well, that was quick.”

Now standing in the middle of Boots wearing just his vest, Mark stepped into the cubicle and sat in the chair. Bridget couldn’t help her gaze hungrily raking over his bare skin. The vest wasn’t skin tight, but Bridget could see the slight bulge of his biceps against the cotton, the dip of his collarbone beneath the seams. She swallowed loudly, trying to ignore the vein in his forearm that flexed and jumped every time he moved. 

Mark matched the shoulder seams of his shirt together and neatly folded it in half to avoid wrinkling it. He looked up at Bridget, his eyes struggling to keep contact with hers.

“Which arm?” he said.

“Um. Does it matter to you?”

“Not particularly.”

“I’ll just do this one, then.” Bridget stepped forward and plucked an antiseptic wipe from the table. She gently rubbed the alcohol over his skin, then threw the wipe into the trash. “So, why are you going to Jerusalem?” she said, taking a pinch of his skin between her fingers. 

“For work,” he replied, shifting in the chair. He seemed nervous.

“You already mentioned that,” she replied, sticking the needle into his arm. He didn’t even flinch. 

“I’m a human rights barrister,” Mark said, turning his head away from where she stood. He was looking towards the floor. “There’s a bit of an issue with the Palestinians currently residing there, so myself and a few of my team members are flying over to be of some assistance.” He paused, swallowing loudly. “Could you, maybe, make this quick? I’m not particularly fond of needles.”

“I’m already finished,” Bridget replied, tossing the needle into the hazardous waste bin. She took a square of gauze and swabbed it across the pinprick in his arm. Tossing that in after the needle, Bridget held up two different plasters. “Regular or Peppa Pig?”

“You gave the shot already?” Mark looked bewildered.

“Yes?” Bridget replied.

“I didn’t even feel it,” he said incredulously. 

Bridget shrugged. “I’ve been doing it for years. You didn’t answer my question.”

Mark blinked at her. “Which question?”

“Regular plaster or Peppa Pig?”

The look on his face was worth the inquiry. It was clear that he didn’t know whether to scoff or laugh, but luckily he chose the latter. It wasn’t the kind of laugh she expected from him—instead of sultry and soft, it came out as a goofy guffaw that caused his whole face to crease. Everything about the laugh made her body tingle. 

“Regular is fine,” he said, still grinning at her. 

Bridget nodded, trying to hide her own smile as she smoothed the plaster over the pinprick in his arm. His skin was warm through the latex of her glove, and she tried incredibly hard to ignore the goosebumps that erupted on his forearm at her touch. 

“So, is that all you need?” she said, taking a large step away from him. She walked straight into the barrier, causing it to clang loudly. Gasping, she wildly grabbed at it, trying to stop it from teetering over and causing even more of a ruckus. 

Once the barrier was still, Bridget turned back to where Mark sat. She could feel the heat rising on her cheeks as she looked down at him. He was sitting on the stool, still in his vest. The way he was looking at her—bemusedly but with just a hint of warmth?—made her break eye contact. She glanced down at her feet, shoving her hands in the pocket of her lab coat. 

“I’ll let you get situated,” she mumbled, gesturing towards the folded shirt still in his lap. 

Snapping out of his reverie, Mark suddenly seemed to realize his state of undress, and Bridget tried desperately to not notice the flush creeping across his chest and neck. He cleared his throat and shifted on the stool. 

Nodding, Bridget dipped quickly out of the curtain and beelined for refuge behind the counter. 

Someone else could deal with him if he needed anything else. She’d done her duty for the day. She wasn’t sure what was causing the butterflies in her stomach, but the thought of having to see him anytime soon made them batter against her rib cage. 

Bridget grabbed the tabloid she had been reading and ducked into the back room. She didn’t come out until lunch. 

\---

_April 16, 2018_

_Weight: not too much, but still not v. good_

_Cigarettes: 2...6_

_Alcohol Units: 3 post-work glasses of wine_

_Calories: 2,532_

_In a bit of a pickle. Mr. Darcy (will never get tired of calling him that) came in today. Found out he’s not a doctor or an entrepreneur or Parliament member, but rather a barrister. A human rights barrister. Also caught glimpse of him in his vest and am v. v. fucked._

_He came in today for a vaccination for a trip to Jerusalem he’s taking (probably to free all of the oppressed or some other incredibly heroic reason). Regardless, I think we had a moment. I made him laugh (even though I wasn’t trying...still don’t know if that’s good or bad) and seeing his face light up made my whole insides turn to liquid. As if he couldn’t be more attractive, he goes and smiles and I feel royally fucked._

_Tom won’t stop teasing me about him. I regret ever telling him I find Mr. Darcy attractive. He’ll probably embarrass me in front of him or worse, tell him how I feel. It’s just a stupid crush, right?_

_Yeah, a stupid crush. I don’t even_ know _him._

_Fuck, I need more wine._

\---

_10 June 2018, Text From Tom_

11:45 AM

Lover boy just came in

_10 June 2018, Text From Bridget_

11:49 AM

???

_10 June 2018, Text From Tom_

11:53 AM

Ur hot barrister. Just came in n bought a load of condoms

_10 June 2018, Text From Bridget_

11:55 AM

Har har, v. funny

_10 June 2018, Text From Tom_

11:57 AM

I hear that a lot.

11:58 AM

Srsly tho, he was just in here looking V. V. good

11:59 AM

Jerusalem did him wonders

_10 June 2018, Text From Bridget_

12:02 PM

What do u mean by ‘V. V. good’?

_10 June 2018, Text From Tom_

12:05 PM

Tanned, taut, totally fuckable

_10 June 2018, Text From Bridget_

12:06 PM

Of COURSE this happens on my day off

_10 June 2018, Text From Tom_

12:07 PM

Wasn’t kidding about the condoms tho. He bought the Durex ‘EXTRA SAFE’ ones

_10 June 2018, Text From Bridget_

12:08 PM

Fuck.

_10 June 2018, Text From Tom_

12:10 PM

Sry Bridgeline

12:11 AM

He’s clearly attacking the pink fortress elsewhere

_10 June 2018, Text From Bridget_

12:15 PM

He’s WHAT?!?!?!?!!

12:16 PM

I’ve reread that text 7 times and still don’t know what u mean

_10 June 2018, Text From Tom_

12:18 PM

Attacking the pink fortress

12:18 PM

Bumping uglies

12:19 PM

Polishing the porpoise

12:19 PM 

Hiding the bishop

12:19 PM

Fishing for kippers

12:19 PM

U no...fucking

_10 June 2018, Text From Bridget_

12:20 PM

U R DERANGED

_10 June 2018, Text From Tom_

12:22 PM

I’m just telling it like it is

12:23 PM

Although it’s probably a v. good sign that he went with EXTRA SAFE condoms. Whoever’s tea he’s dipping his biscuit into on his holiday clearly isn’t someone he’s fond of

_10 June 2018, Text From Bridget_

12:25 PM

How do u no he’s going on holiday?

_10 June 2018, Text From Tom_

12:27 PM

I asked

_10 June 2018, Text From Bridget_

12:28 PM

U WHAT

_10 June 2018, Text From Tom_

12:29 PM

Look Bridge, if ur not going to take the initiative, I’ll take it for u

_10 June 2018, Text From Bridget_

12:30 PM

OMG I can never show my face at work ever again

12:31 PM

WHY WOULD U DO THAT

12:32 PM

I HAVEN’T SEEN HIM IN WEEKS

12:32 PM

WHY 

_10 June 2018, Text From Tom_

12:33 PM

Oh relax

12:34 PM

It’s not like I gave him your number

12:35 PM

...yet

_10 June 2018, Text From Bridget_

12:36 PM

I will kill u.

_10 June 2018, Text From Tom_

12:37 PM

He also bought a vibrating cock ring

_10 June 2018, Text From Bridget_

12:38 PM

WHAT

_10 June 2018, Text From Tom_

12:40 PM

Oops, got a customer

12:41 PM

Gotta run

12:42 PM

Byeeeeeeeeeeeee xo

_10 June 2018, Text From Bridget_

12:42 PM

DON’T U DARE

12:43 PM

TOM

12:43 PM

U CAN’T LEAVE AFTER SOMETHING LIKE THAT

12:43 PM

UR A WANKER


	3. june

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things start to get sticky...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not sure if i really hashed out where my brain was when i started this, but i had the idea that bridget & daniel had dated briefly before meeting mark. they obviously didn't meet in the workplace like they do in canon, so assume they met on a dating app or something along those lines. they are broken up, but it ended semi-cordially. they don't speak often, but they don't avoid each other, either.
> 
> also, total disclaimer: i've never been to london in my life, let alone inside of a boots. most of my knowledge is coming from google & my amazing british friends on twitter. if things are off or seem weird, just...ignore them, for my sanity 😂

_Summer_

"It’s fucking awful out,” Bridget stated as she made her way around the counter. 

Tom was perched on a stool, his legs primly crossed and a large fan fluttering in his hand and a cold kombucha in the other. Bridget smirked at him.

“I truly feel like I’m melting,” Tom replied dramatically. He dragged a fingertip or two across his brow, grimacing at the moisture. “I only want it this hot when I’m on holiday. On a beach. With a cocktail. And a cabana boy.”

“Mmm, a cabana boy,” Bridget hummed appreciatively. “Now there’s something I can get behind.”

“Speaking of boys,” Tom said, swinging his legs down off the stool and pushing himself up, “have you seen The Long Arms and Legs of the Law lately?”

Bridget just rolled her eyes. If she were to be truthful, she _had_ seen him, but not face-to-face. He’d popped into Boots once or twice since Tom’s texts to her, but she didn’t make it a point to help him. Instead, she preferred hiding behind displays and ducking into the storage room whenever she saw him come into the store. She couldn’t trust herself to not make act like a complete tit now that she knew he was... _polishing the porpoise_ with someone.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” Tom continued. “Your lack of response makes you look incredibly guilty.”

“I haven’t seen him, no.” 

“Not even from a distance?”

“No.”

The bell at the front of the store rang, and Bridget saw Tom’s face break into a devilish grin. The bottom of her stomach fell out.

“Looks like you’ll have your chance now.” 

Without thinking, Bridget scanned the area behind the counter for the quickest escape route or least obvious hiding spot. There was a little alcove under the counter she could duck under, or she could make a run for the break room. Neither seemed plausible.

Seeing the panic on her face, Tom’s grin widened as he slid off of the stool. Leaning in obnoxiously close, he whispered, “Ah ah, Bridgeline. We must face our fears some time. If you face this one, I’ll treat you to margaritas.”

“Patrón margaritas,” she hissed back.

“Fine, one Patrón margarita. I’m a bloody chemist, not a doctor.”

With a gentle nudge, Tom turned her towards the counter and gave her a shove. Bridget stumbled forward. Her mouth felt like a wad of cotton had been stuffed into it and there was a lump in her throat. Mark wasn’t in her direct line of sight, but she could see the top of his head meandering through the section of the store where there were refrigerated goods. 

When the explosion of curls on top of his head disappeared from Bridget’s line of view, she briefly thought she was going to get away with not having to see him. Her palms had begun to sweat and the prospect of a margarita made with top shelf tequila didn’t seem worth the stress. 

That, of course, wasn’t going to happen.

Just as she let out a relieved sigh, he popped out of an aisle and turned towards her.

As if seeing him wasn’t sweat-inducing enough, Bridget had _not_ anticipated him looking the way he did. She was used to him in smart suits or a pair of chinos with a shirt that had the top button undone. She had become comfortable with his public school appearance. She had become so comfortable with his appearance that she hadn’t thought about him in any other type of clothing. 

Someone above clearly had it out for her.

Mark now approached her in a pair of running shorts and an old gray t-shirt that was sweat soaked around the collar. His hair was even more erratic than normal, and the apples of his cheeks were flushed. He had one earbud in, the other hanging loosely down the front of his chest. In his hand was a bottle of water and a protein bar.

Bridget swallowed.

“Bridget,” he said brightly as the corners of his lips quirked up.

“Huh?” she said dumbly.

“I...I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Who, me?” She felt Tom give her a swift kick in the ankle.

“Unless you’re hiding another Bridget behind the counter…” Mark trailed off, smirking at her as he placed his goods on the counter. 

“Oh. Yes. Well.” Without making eye contact, Bridget grabbed the water bottle and bar from the countertop to scan them. “I’ve been rather busy. You know how it is...working, dating.”

At this, Mark’s smile fell a little.

“Ah, you’re seeing someone?” he said, pulling a money clip out of the pocket of his running shorts.

“Oh, plenty of people.” Bridget’s brain was screaming _STOP!_ but her mouth was rebelling mercilessly. “I actually just had a date with a doctor. He helps sick orphans. In Africa.” 

“Doctors Without Borders?”

Bridget felt heat creep up her neck. “Yeah...Doctors Without Borders.”

“Good for him. That’s very admirable work.”

A snort escaped Bridget. “That’s rich, coming from a human rights barrister.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m just saying, you make it sound like what you do for a living isn’t as important. You save people’s lives just as much as...um...Dave, does.” 

_Dave? Who the hell is Dave?_ Behind her, Tom choked on his kombucha.

“Oh.” Mark slid the bottle of water and protein bar over to her. “Well, I suppose so. I don’t think of it as admirable, more as necessary.” 

Bridget was full on blushing at this point, cursing her traitorous mouth for the lies that it was spewing. She hadn’t dated anyone in months, but the idea of Mark fishing for kippers with someone made her more jealous than she cared to admit.

“So, are you and Dave an item?” Mark was absentmindedly fiddling with the ear bud hanging by his navel.

“Hm? Oh, um, it was just a one date thing, so I’m not sure yet. We actually have a date tomorrow. At Scarlett Green _.”_ _Scarlett Green?! A DATE?! STOP TALKING!!!_ Bridget swiped Mark’s water bottle. “Bag?”

“No thank you,” he replied, taking them from her hand. The contact of his fingers on her knuckles sent electricity along her skin. 

“How about you? How was your holiday?” 

_MOUTH, ABORT, ABORT._

“My holiday?”

Bridget’s tongue felt like it weighed six stone as she quickly tried to cover for herself. Mark had no way of knowing that _she_ knew that he went on holiday...a holiday that required a “load of condoms”. 

“Erm...didn’t you just get back from Jerusalem?” she said, tapping her fingers on the linoleum countertop.

Maybe she imagined it, but Bridget swore she saw Mark exhale, as if he were relieved. 

“Ah, yes, Jerusalem. It went well. As well as it could’ve gone, I suppose. I got back weeks ago, though.”

“Oh. Well, I’m glad it went well.”

“Yes, I am, too.”

An awkward silence hung between them, hovering over the counter like unpaid merchandise. Bridget didn’t know where to focus her attention--the earbud hanging from his ear was swinging far too closely to his waistband, but the movement was all she could focus on. She was sure that it looked like she was openly staring at his crotch, but she couldn’t look away.

Mark cleared his throat, snapping her out of her trance.

“Well,” he said, holding up the water bottle in farewell. “Thanks for this.”

“Anytime,” she said, giving him a tight smile. “See you next time.”

“I look forward to it,” Mark replied. “Good luck on your date.” And then he turned around to exit the store. Bridget found herself blushing at the words, unsure if they were sincere or just the type of response he’d give to anyone.

As she watched his curls disappear behind a row of shelves and out the front door, she heard Tom slam his kombucha bottle down on the counter behind her.

“Bridget, who the _fuck_ is Dave?” he said, opening the fan with a flourish and nervously fluttering it in front of his face.

“It’s nobody.”

“Don’t play coy with me, Miss Jones,” Tom said, leaning in conspiratorially.

“I’m serious. It’s nobody. I-I panicked. I made him up.”

“Good god, Bridget. That is _not_ how you get a man to shag you!”

“I know,” she groaned, leaning her head on the countertop. 

Somewhere above her head, she could hear Tom take a dramatic sip of his kombucha before setting it back down. The fan clacked back open, and she heard him say, “You’re doomed, Jones.”

All she could do was let out another groan.

\---

_June 30, 2018_

_Weight: Ugh._

_Cigarettes: 1 pack + a few stragglers_

_Alcohol Units: Bottle and a half of chardonnay_

_Calories: 3,412_

_Mr. Darcy was in today. He looked...I don’t even know if I can put it into words. I thought the chinos and jumpers and suits did it for me, but apparently athletic wear is just as enticing. He was so sweaty and flushed, and I swear my brain just short circuited._

_I still can’t get over the fact that he went on holiday with what I assume is a lover. Why else would someone as awkward and snobbish as him need a boat load of condoms? He isn’t shagging just any girl in a bar. They’d be beneath him. No, the only reason a man like Mark Darcy would need a boat load of condoms is to make sweet, passionate love to a woman he adores._

_For the record, my chances of being that woman are now slim to none. I know it’s been a few weeks since his trip, but it was all I could think of when I saw him. He’s so bloody HOT. I don’t think I’ve been this attracted to a man in god knows how long, even with his terrible attitude and the gherkin shoved up his arse, he still makes my palms sweat. Is it the name? Is it because I’ve now seen him a total of four times and I’m just a pathetic, lonely spinster? Who knows._

_What I *do* know is that I am a complete idiot and told him I’ve been seeing someone named Dave. My idiotic mouth told him I have a date tomorrow at Scarlett Green. Clearly I am v. v. stupid._

_Perhaps I could call Daniel and see if he’d be willing to be my stand-in date. No use in wasting the lie...if I could get a free meal out of it, what’s the harm? I mean, the harm could be quite large, now that I think of it, but it’s harm in the shape of a mind-blowing shag. Things could be worse, right? Besides, I could wear my grandma pants...it’s no secret that Daniel loves them, and with this entire bottle of wine in my stomach, I don’t think I could possibly wear anything smaller._

_Dave, Daniel, they’re close enough, right?_

_Yes, I’m beginning to think this is a good idea. I’m off to text him now. Will report later._

\---

_30 June 2018, Text From Bridget  
_10:43 PM  
Hey Daniel

_30 June 2018, Text From Daniel Wanker Cleaver  
_10:54 PM  
Hi, who’s this? I don’t have the number saved.  
10:57 PM  
Bridget, I’m kidding.   
10:58 PM  
Bridget, come on. I was joking. Is everything OK?

_30 June 2018, Text From Bridget  
_10:59 PM  
Not funny

_30 June 2018, Text From Daniel Wanker Cleaver  
_11:01 PM  
Sorry, seemed funnier in my head. What do I owe this honor?

_30 June 2018, Text From Bridget  
_11:03 PM  
Ur making me regret this already

_30 June 2018, Text From Daniel Wanker Cleaver_

11:04 PM

Come on now, Bridge. It was only a joke

_30 June 2018, Text From Bridget  
_11:06 PM  
I was wondering if u would want to get some dinner tmrw at Scarlett Green

_30 June 2018, Text From Daniel Wanker Cleaver  
_11:07 PM  
Are you drunk?

_30 June 2018, Text From Bridget  
_11:09 PM  
Forget it  
11:12 PM  
And maybe

_30 June 2018, Text From Daniel Wanker Cleaver  
_11:15 PM  
Am I paying?

_30 June 2018, Text From Bridget  
_11:09 PM  
I wasn’t going 2 make u, but after ur text, I think u should

_30 June 2018, Text From Daniel Wanker Cleaver  
_11:11 PM  
Fine, that’s fair. What time?

_30 June 2018, Text From Bridget  
_11:12 PM  
7?

_30 June 2018, Text From Daniel Wanker Cleaver  
_11:14 PM  
Pick you up?

_30 June 2018, Text From Bridget  
_11:17 PM  
Probably safer to just meet there

_30 June 2018, Text From Daniel Wanker Cleaver  
_11:18 PM  
You’re an enigma, Jones.   
11:20 PM  
I’ll see you at 7  
11:21 PM  
Looking forward to it


	4. july

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, thank you for all of the fun comments on this! i've loved reading your reactions & i love how much you're all enjoying it :) this is the part in the fic that is brand new--everything up until this point was already pre-written, so the chapters are coming as i write them from this point out. hopefully i can find the time to finish it! <3

Bridget arrived at Scarlett Green at quarter to seven, wearing a pair of black skinny jeans and a red silk top. She wasn’t remotely interested in getting back with Daniel--despite the situation she was finding herself in--but she also wasn’t going to let him forget what he lost when he cheated on her with that American stick insect. The outfit was absolutely meant to make him sweat, and as she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the front door, she felt that she'd made the right choice. 

Bridget wasn’t prone to being early, but there was something about seeing her ex-boyfriend in an oddly romantic way that made the need for pre-date drinks crucial.  Of course, Daniel wasn’t there yet, so the hostess found her a table near the entrance. She asked if they could be seated in the window, a much more casual situation than if it had been a proper table. The building was buzzing with low conversation and the clinking of silverware, and Bridget found herself drawn to the many different patrons who were seated around her. The waiter came over, and Bridget ordered herself a red wine to hold her over while she waited.

The minutes seemed to be dragging by, and the people watching was becoming tedious. Bridget could feel the old sensation of annoyance at Daniel creeping up her spine. It was getting closer to seven, and there was still no sign of him. She wasn’t a punctual person by habit, but Daniel put her to shame. It was one of the things that drove them apart--he was always somewhere flashier, fancier, more important. Hence how he met Veronica. He never seemed to understand why it hurt Bridget in the long run, and in a twisted way, that made it easier for her to end it. 

With a sigh, Bridget sipped on her wine and scrolled through Instagram. Tom was out at drag bingo with a group of friends, Jude seemed to be on a date of her own, and based on the fact that Shaz’s stories were only available to “close friends”, Bridget could assume that she was smoking pot and watching documentaries. 

The wine was now slowly seeping into her muscles, forcing them to relax after a long week of work. She hadn’t eaten before getting to the restaurant, solely so she could fit into her jeans, and the wine was going to her head. Not wanting to be left out of the social media circle, she opened up her camera and flipped it to front-facing.  _ Damn, I look good! _ she thought to herself as she turned her head to the side.  _ Thank god I took the time to do my hair. _

Just as she was about to snap a selfie to post to her feed, she noticed something in the corner of her screen. Right behind her, in mirror image, was a very familiar looking male bottom. The man was standing by the hostess’s station, both hands in the pockets of his trousers as he spoke to the hostess. Bridget watched as the girl put a finger up to the man before disappearing into the kitchen, and Bridget could only assume that he was picking up takeout. 

The man’s face followed the hostess as she walked away, and Bridget then realized that it was Mark.

Before she had a chance to shut herself up, she said, “Mark? Is that you?”

The man turned to look behind him, his hands never leaving his pockets. Bridget immediately noticed that the first few buttons of his shirt were undone, the smallest hint of his vest peeking out. She blushed, quickly averting her eyes back up to his face, only to see that he, too, was blushing.

“What are you doing here?” Bridget asked, standing up to cross the small space between them.

“Well, you mentioned this place yesterday and I, uh, forgot how good their salmon is. I figured I’d get takeaway.”

“Oh,” Bridget said, hooking her thumbs in the pockets of her pants. “Yes, it is quite good.” 

An awkward silence hung between them as the restaurant continued to thrum around them. They couldn’t make eye contact, the two of them just standing in the entryway as Mark awkwardly cleared his throat and Bridget pursed her lips as she struggled to think of what to say.

In a flash of a moment, their eyes met, and Bridget once again saw the faintest hint of color rise on Mark’s cheeks. She watched as he glanced behind her, to where her purse still sat on her stool.

“Aren’t you here with someone?” he asked, gesturing towards her spot with his chin.

Bridget looked behind her, then back at Mark. “Oh, yes, um, I’m meeting, um, Dave here. He just hasn’t shown up yet.” There was a half-second beat before the words, “Would you like to join me for a drink?” came tumbling out of her mouth.

Mark looked taken aback, but pleased. He glanced towards the kitchen where the hostess still hadn’t returned from, and nodded. 

“If you don’t mind, and if Dave doesn’t mind, I’d be delighted,” he replied. Bridget couldn’t help the grin on her face at his acceptance. He followed her over to the little nook where her empty wine glass sat, pulled out her stool for her, and then sat down. They were only inches apart, and Bridget could see the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple in the light coming through the window. 

The waiter noticed them both sitting in the window, and swung back around to take their orders. Bridget got another glass of wine, and Mark ordered a gin and tonic. 

“So, do you come here often?” Bridget asked, her fingers nervously twirling the empty glass in front of her.

“I wouldn’t say often. Maybe a handful of times? But when you mentioned it at Boots yesterday, I remembered how much I enjoy their salmon and decided that Friday was the perfect excuse for some takeaway.” He smiled at her. “How about you? Is this a regular haunt for you?”

Bridget laughed, thinking about how many nights her and Daniel spent at Scarlett Green for drinks and appetizers. That’s probably why it was the first thing that sprang to mind in the middle of her lie to Mark.

“I’ve been here once or twice,” she responded. She glanced over to where Mark was, and noticed that he was watching her intently. The counter at Boots that was usually between them didn’t afford her this close proximity to him, and she found herself drowning in the depths of his eyes. She took in his appearance, noting that he was most likely in his dismantled work clothes, considering the day and hour. She imagined him in his car, pulling off his tie and hanging his suit jacket in the backseat while he phoned the restaurant with his order. 

The waiter returned with their drinks, and Mark thanked him. He handed Bridget her wine, his fingers lingering on the glass just a bit longer than necessary. Bridget gave him a nervous laugh, thanked him, and then took a large sip. 

“It’s kind of odd seeing you out in the world and not in Boots,” she said, touching her lips with her fingertips to catch any moisture from the glass. 

Mark chuckled at this. “I could say the same for you. I was beginning to think that you lived there.”

“Some days it feels like that, but thank god that isn’t the case. I have to say, I haven’t been so relieved for a Friday. This week seemed to drag on.”

“I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I went for a run yesterday. I had to get out of my own head for a bit.”

“I can imagine, being a barrister and all. You probably have loads on your mind.”

Mark smiled, taking a sip of his cocktail. “I do. It doesn’t afford me much time to do things for myself, but if the chance arises, I try to take it.”

“Like running?”

“Yes, like running. And grabbing takeout. They may seem like little things, but it helps me feel a bit more human.”

Bridget hummed in agreement. Their lives were very, very different, but Bridget could sense that underneath the surface, they wanted for similar things. 

“That’s how I feel about being able to take a bath. Ohh, or when I get the chance to watch one of my favorite movies. Sometimes I’m so knackered when I get home that I don’t even have the energy to put it on, but it’s  _ necessary _ , you know?”

Mark nodded. “Exactly. I don’t nearly have as much time as I wish I did, but it could be worse.” He paused, taking another sip. “So, what’s your go-to movie when you get the chance to indulge?”

It was Bridget’s turn to blush. She occupied her mouth with another sip of wine. She could see him raising his eyebrows out of the corner of her eye, as if he were encouraging her to answer him.

“ _ Pride and Prejudice _ ,” she finally admitted. 

Mark’s grin was so wide that it was impossible to miss. She watched as he took another swig of his drink.

“Are you mocking me?” he said, amusement still dancing in his eyes.

“What? No! Why in the world would you think that?” Bridget retorted, her eyes growing wide.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I just meant with my last name and all, I thought you might be taking the piss,” he replied, quickly fumbling to rectify the situation. “It’s a pretty common thing I have to deal with.”

“Oh,” Bridget said, letting out a sigh of relief. “No, I’m not taking the piss, I promise. It really is my favorite. Have you  _ seen _ Colin Firth? He’s an absolute dream.”

“Ah, so a miniseries fan, not the movie?” Mark replied. Bridget was stunned that he even knew the difference, and she took a fortifying gulp of her wine.

“I like the movie, too,” she replied. “Matthew MacFadyen is lovely, but when Firth is your first, there really isn’t any going back.”

Mark nodded as if in agreement, and Bridget couldn’t help the smile that crossed her face. She hadn’t even thought about the correlation to his name when she said it, but she now felt silly for not realizing it earlier in their conversation. The only other people she knew with the last name Darcy were old friends of her parents back in Grafton Underwood, and she was sure she had heard her own mother tease the admiral about it.

“It’s funny,” Bridget continued, swirling the little bit of wine that was left in her glass, “I should have known sooner that people probably poke fun at you about your last name. There’s this couple my parents are friends with and their last name is actually Darcy, too, and my mum is always teasing them about it. They live in this big, beautiful home that’s basically the Pemberley of Grafton Underwood. It’s kind of ironic, in all honesty.”

For half a second, she saw something in Mark’s face shift. He cleared his throat.

“Did you say Grafton Underwood?”

_ Oh God, what now, _ she thought to herself, thinking she made yet another faux pas.

“Yes, it’s a little village in Northamptonshire. Do you know it?”

Mark smiled at this, the crinkles around his eyes doubling in number. 

“I know it very well, actually.”

“Oh,” Bridget said, her demeanor brightening, “you aren’t related to the Darcys my parents know, are you? Are they your aunt and uncle?”

Mark laughed now, a warm sound that washed over Bridget like sunshine on a cool day. 

“What if I told you that not only am I related to them, but I grew up in that big, beautiful home?”

At this, Bridget audibly gasped. 

“ _ You’re _ Malcolm and Elaine’s son?!”

“The one and only,” Mark replied, his smile stretching across his face. “And whose daughter would you happen to be?”

“Pam and Colin Jones!”

Bridget noticed the smallest flicker of realization cross over Mark’s face

“What a small world,” he murmured, the look on his face disappearing just as quickly as it appeared.

They sat in comfortable silence, sneaking glances at each other as pedestrians strolled by the window in front of them. Suddenly, Bridget’s mobile vibrated against the table between them. She quickly snatched it up, seeing a text from Daniel.

_ 31 June 2018, Text From Daniel Wanker Cleaver  
_ _ 7:18 PM  
_ _ Sorry I’m running late. About 5 minutes out. Order me a martini? _

Bridget couldn’t help the groan that escaped her before flipping the phone face down on the table. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mark smirk.

“Dave?” he asked nonchalantly, draining the last bit of his gin and tonic.

“Yes,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Running late, as usual.”

“Isn’t this only your second date?” Mark said.

Bridget, realizing her mistake, choked on her wine.

“Oh, erm, yes, it is. But he was late last time, too. You know how doctors are...always saving lives.”

Mark nodded at this, pushing his glass towards the window. He suddenly seemed on edge, and Bridget could feel the energy shift in the air. From somewhere behind them, the hostess suddenly came forward with Mark’s takeaway bag. He took it with a gracious smile, and handed the young girl a fifty pound note. “Keep the change,” he said cordially, and Bridget knew it had to be at least a forty-percent tip. 

His brow furrowed, the takeaway bag in his hands. If Bridget knew any better, she’d say that he was having some kind of internal battle with himself. He cleared his throat, then made eye contact with her. 

“Listen,” he said, turning his body towards her. “I’m not very good with...words. This is probably very forward of me, but, well...if it doesn’t work out with Dave, I would very much like to take you out sometime.”

Bridget felt her entire body flood with adrenaline. “Me?” she squeaked. 

“I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have sa-”

“I would love that,” she said in a rush, cutting off his apology. 

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Mark said, surprise evident in his voice. “In that case, I should probably give you my number. You know...in case it doesn’t work out.”

All thoughts of Daniel approaching the restaurant had flown out of Bridget’s head. She was reeling from the humble admission from Mark. Bridget eagerly grabbed her phone, sliding the bar across the screen to open it. “Go ahead,” she said, sitting up a bit straighter. “I have the keypad up.”

Mark started to methodically recite the ten-digit number, and Bridget willfully punched it in. She was almost to the last two digits when she suddenly heard Daniel’s voice. 

“Darcy? What the fuck are you doing here?”

Mark’s voice cut short, and Bridget looked up to see the two men staring at each other. The tendon in Mark’s jaw was as tight as a bow string, and Daniel had a smirk on his face that she knew meant trouble. 

“I’m having a drink. Not that it’s any of your business,” Mark replied. “And yourself?”

“Funny,” Daniel said, “I’m here to do the exact same thing. With the exact same person.”

At this, Mark whipped his head around to look at Bridget.

“ _ This _ is Dave?” he said, his voice frighteningly level. “This is the man you’ve been seeing?”

Bridget could feel her face flush hot and her palms start to sweat. She stuttered, trying to come up with an answer to his query. 

“Dave? Who the fuck is Dave? Bridget, how do you know this wanker?” Daniel said. His voice was distant beyond her thoughts, as if she were underwater. 

“You know each other?” she whispered, her eyes now darting between the two.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Mark said, his eyes darting back to where Daniel stood.

“Listen, Darcy, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to get on having drinks with my girlfriend. So shove off.”

“Girlfriend?” Bridget heard Mark whisper. 

“I’m not his girlfriend!” Bridget exclaimed, lunging forward to grab Mark’s forearm. 

“Girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, it’s all the same,” Daniel muttered, running his hand through his hair. 

“I suppose to you it is,” Mark said to him. He stood, and Bridget’s hand fell back to her side. “Thank you for the drink,” he said, turning to Bridget. “It seems I’ve been sorely mistaken. I’m sorry for wasting your time. Take care.” 

And with that, he disappeared out of the restaurant doors.

Bridget felt herself floundering as she sat back down on her stool. Somewhere next to her, Daniel snorted in derision, dragging Mark’s now empty stool away from the table to take a seat. 

“I can’t fucking believe Mark Darcy was trying to pick you up in a bar,” he scoffed, dropping his phone on the table. “I didn’t think the old boy had it in him, but I guess you can’t judge a barrister by their wig.”

“What the fuck just happened?” Bridget breathed, her eyes now focusing on Daniel. 

“Well, Bridget, you were being pestered by a public school prick, and I swooped in to save you.” Daniel now motioned for the waiter to come over, and he ordered himself a martini. “You can thank me later.”

“Daniel, how do you know Mark?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He wasn’t  _ pestering _ me, he was asking me out on a date!”

“A date? Well, then you can really thank me. C’mon, Bridge. Trust me on this. I know you. And Mark Darcy is  _ not _ your type.” 

“Answer me!” she hissed. “How do you know him?”

Daniel took a steadying breath, looking up at the ceiling of the restaurant, before saying, “Cambridge. He was, believe it or not, my best mate.”

“And how the fuck am I just finding out about him now?!” she frantically whispered with barely contained anger. 

“We had a falling out. Right after his wedding. Poor girl didn’t know what hit her. I haven’t spoken to him since.” The waiter brought Daniel’s drink over, and Daniel lifted it to him with a, “Cheers, mate.” 

“What was the falling out about?” Bridget said, her mind racing. She knew Daniel--oh, did she know Daniel--and she knew what he was capable of. She barely knew Mark, but she could already tell that he was a far cry from her womanizing, brash-mouthed ex-boyfriend.

“Oh, I forget at this point. Doesn’t matter, does it? You wouldn’t have gone out with him anyway...would you?”

The anger and adrenaline and anxiety that had been bubbling up inside of Bridget for weeks finally spilled over. She had worked herself up into a lather about Mark going on an alleged holiday with a woman, and then the shock of him asking her on a date had sent her reeling. Now, Daniel had the audacity to sit across from her and act like he had saved her from some terrible scenario.

“You know what, Daniel? I would have,” she spat, throwing a few bills onto the table. “I’m sorry I even asked you to come tonight. Have a nice life.” 

And with that, Bridget picked up her phone and her bag, and walked out.

\---

_ 31 June 2018, Text From Bridget  
_ 8:30 PM  
Where r u?

_ 31 June 2018, Text From Tom  
_ 8:32 PM  
The Karaoke Hole  
8:32 PM  
Why?

_ 31 June 2018, Text From Bridget  
_ 8:33 PM  
Can I meet u there?

_ 31 June 2018, Text From Tom  
_ 8:35 PM  
Of course  
8:35 PM  
Is everything OK?

_ 31 June 2018, Text From Bridget  
_ 8:36 PM  
No, it’s royally fucked in a way that could only happen to me  
8:37 PM  
I’ll explain when I get there  
8:38 PM  
And I’m cashing in those Patron margaritas

_31 June 2018, Text From Tom  
_8:40 PM  
Oh boy  
8:40 PM  
I’ll have one waiting


	5. july ctnd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! we've hit the part of the fic that i had nothing written for, so all of this is coming as it comes. i have the rest loosely planned out, but i keep having new ideas that are really enticing, so i'm sorry for the sporadic posting. hopefully this makes up for the wait!

_July 1, 2018  
_ _Weight: :(  
_ _Cigarettes: Too many  
_ _Alcohol Units: Blergh  
_ _Calories: Woof_

I can’t remember the last time I was this hungover. It’s for genuine reasons, but still, just the thought of leaving my flat has me seeing stars. I called in sick from work--probably for the best--but I still don’t know when I’ll be able to show my face there again. Probably not for the rest of my life, if Mark Darcy frequents it. 

In fact, I probably should never show my face in the entirety of London ever again. There’s far too high of a risk of seeing him, and to be quite frank, I don’t know if my poor, fragile ego could handle it. 

You see, dear diary, Mark Darcy and I were having an amazing evening last night. He showed up at Scarlett Green to pick up his takeaway, and we ended up having a drink together while he waited. Things were going v. v. well. 

And then fucking wanker arsehole Daniel fucking Cleaver showed up.

APPARENTLY, they know each other. 

Well. 

Well enough that they got into a full on tiff about both of their intentions with me, but Mark, being the bigger person, decided to leave the situation instead of escalating Daniel’s incessant whingeing. 

The worst part? I didn’t get his entire phone number. I’m two digits short, so I can’t even apologize or explain myself to him. 

Truly, what the actual fuck.

\---

 _1 July 2018, Text From Tom  
_ 12:15 PM  
Lover boy just walked in

_1 July 2018, Text From Bridget  
_ 12:26 PM  
Sry, was vomiting into the toilet  
Did he say anything?

_1 July 2018, Text From Tom  
_ 12:28 PM  
No, but he looked like he was run over by a lorry  
12:29 PM  
Bought a shit ton of paracetamol and like, three Lucozades  
All orange flavor, which is like 🤮 to begin with

_1 July 2018, Text From Bridget  
_ 12:40 PM  
Sry vomiting again  
12:41 PM  
Sounds like he took the same route we did   
I never want to see a tequila bottle again in my life

_1 July 2018, Text From Tom  
_ 12:42 PM  
I mean, I’m not going to write it off just yet  
I like a nice after-work margarita

_1 July 2018, Text From Bridget  
_ 12:44 PM  
I can’t believe u let me get obliterated

_1 July 2018, Text From Tom  
_ 12:45 PM  
You’re welcome  
12:46 PM  
Any luck on the phone number front?

_1 July 2018, Text From Bridget  
_ 12:50 PM  
I honestly haven’t had a chance to start trying  
How does one even start? 

_1 July 2018, Text From Tom  
_ 12:55 PM  
I mean, you have the first 8 digits, Bridge  
It isn’t rocket science

_1 July 2018, Text From Bridget  
_ 12:57 PM  
Ughhhhhhhhh I’m too hungover for this

_1 July 2018, Text From Tom  
_ 1:00 PM  
Listen...I’ll make you a deal  
I get done with my shift at 5:00. You order a pizza (and pay), I’ll pick it up on my way to your flat, and we can hash this out tonight  
I’m no mathematician, but it’s like, what? 20 phone numbers total? We’ll just do a bunch of combinations until we get the right one

_1 July 2018, Text From Bridget  
_ 1:02 PM  
What have I done to deserve you  
Pepperoni?

_1 July 2018, Text From Tom  
_ 1:05 PM  
That’s fine  
I’ll be over soon

_1 July 2018, Text From Bridget  
_ 1:06 PM  
xxx

\---

“This is impossible,” Bridget moaned, flopping back onto the sofa. Somewhere between her and Tom was a list of phone numbers they’d hashed out, based on the first eight digits of the number Mark gave her. The paper that the list was on had half of the suggestions scratched out, and Bridget had accidentally spilled some wine on the top half of the paper. 

“You’re impossible,” Tom said around a slice of pizza. “We’re halfway through. It can’t be that bad.”

“ _You_ haven’t been the one awkwardly hanging up as the answering machine comes on,” Bridget retorted. “Or having to ask if Mark Darcy is there if someone picks up.”

Tom hummed, pulling off a slice of pepperoni off the slice in his hand. 

“I’m doomed to be single for the rest of my life,” Bridget moaned, burying her face into one of the throw pillows.

“Bridget, may I be frank for a moment?” Bridget allowed her head to drag across the pillow just enough that she could see Tom from one eye. He sighed, twirling his wine glass in his hand as he looked at her like she was a lost cause. “I understand your embarrassment with the situation--truly, I do--but you barely know this man. Why are you acting like it’s the end of the world if you never see him again?”

Bridget knew he had a point, but she also knew the sensation of being just centimeters away from Mark’s eyes. Even the brief chance she had with him in Scarlett Green was enough to unsteady her. She could still see the way his fingers held his glass in sharp relief, and if she tried really hard, she could almost smell the expensive cologne that lingered around him, barely noticeable unless you were close enough to him. As pathetic as it sounded in her head, Bridget hadn’t stopped thinking about Mark since he walked out the doors of the restaurant. There was something much deeper that was tying her to him, and she couldn’t help feeling like she had lost out on a wonderful, serendipitous opportunity.

“I guess you’re right,” she lied, tamping down the stir of disappointment in her chest. “Are you sure none of your fellow gays don’t want to bat for the other team? I promise I’m a good time.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Stop being such a daft cow,” he replied. Bridget let out an indignant huff. “A _lovely_ daft cow, but a daft cow nonetheless. Just put the next number in and let’s get on with it.”

“Fine,” Bridget said, reaching for her phone again. She swiped it open, diligently punched the numbers in, and waited for it to start ringing. After the sixth chime, she prepared to slam the end button, but a voice on the other end caught her off-guard.

“Hello, you’ve reached Mark Darcy. I’m unable to answer, but leave a brief message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Half of her panicked, wondering if she should hang up. The other half of her realized how insane that would be, considering how many numbers she’d called with no luck. As the end of the automated part of the message prattled off, Bridget took a steadying breath. The phone beeped.

“Hey Mark, it’s Bridget. From Scarlett Green. And Boots. And I suppose Grafton Underwood, now that I think of it. Oh god, I’m rambling. I’m sorry. Um, I hope you don’t think I’m a stalker for figuring out the rest of your phone number. I just, um, wanted to reach out and apologize for last night. I’m mortified, quite honestly. Hopefully you don’t think too poorly of me, or my choices in men. I swear there’s nothing going on between Daniel and I. He’s a wanker, if I’m being honest. I just...yeah. I don’t know. I guess I just feel badly and would like to properly apologize. If you want, you can give me a call back. Maybe talk soon? Bye.”

As she hung up, she noticed Tom’s expression from across the room. His eyebrows were threatening to crawl right into his hairline, and his eyes were the size of saucers. 

“What?” Bridget said, putting her phone down next to her.

“That was...eloquent, Bridgeline. If that doesn’t have him running back to you with open arms now, I don’t know what will.”

Bridget chucked a pillow at him. 

“Arse,” she muttered. They sat in silence, awkwardness hanging between them. Tom’s eyebrows still hadn’t descended, and Bridget’s palms were still sweating. “Was it really that bad?” she said, worrying at a thread of her trackie bottoms.

“It wasn’t your best,” Tom replied. “Buuuuut, it wasn’t your worst, either. I’d say it was somewhere in the middle.”

Bridget groaned, sinking her head back onto the pillow at her side. “I’m doomed.”

She could hear Tom standing up, the rattle of empty wine glasses in his hand. He leaned over her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, which just made Bridget groan in embarrassment again.

“I’m going to head out,” Tom said from the kitchen. “Tomorrow is a new day, a new start. We’ll forget this ever happened, and then we’ll officially start our ‘Get Bridget a Boyfriend’ campaign.” She heard him drop the wine glasses into the sink then pick up his keys. He made his way back to where Bridget was on the couch, and he crouched down so that he was eye level with her. “Don’t be hard on yourself, Bridge. It happens to the best of us.” He kissed her forehead. “I’ll see you at work. Talk in the morning?”

“Talk in the morning,” Bridget agreed. “Thanks for coming over and seeing me through this.”

“Anything for you, darling. Have a good night.”

“You too.” 

She walked Tom to the flat door, waved him off, and then made her way back to the kitchen. She fished one of the empty wine glasses out of the sink, poured herself a generous glug of chardonnay, and then made her way back to the living room. She was sure she could find a rerun of some mindless show, or perhaps a romcom if she put in the effort. One thing she was positive of, there was no shortage of wine in her flat, and it was going to take all the alcohol she could get to try and forget the simmering embarrassment that was threatening to cook her alive.

\---

Bridget woke up the next morning with a dull throb behind her eyes. Sunlight was pouring into her bedroom window, causing her to squint. She couldn’t recall making it to bed the night before, but somehow she’d managed. The previous night’s embarrassment came flooding back to her like a tidal wave, and she reached for her phone to check that she hadn’t engaged in any drunk texting. Before she had a chance to look at her outgoing texts, a notification from an unknown number popped up on the home screen. 

_2 July 2018, Text From Unknown_  
5:34 AM  
Hello Bridget, it’s Mark. Sorry about missing your call. I was on a flight to NY. I’d love to talk, but I’m here for work until the foreseeable future. Perhaps we can set up a Facetime? Please let me know.

Bridget couldn’t help the way her stomach flipped as she reread the text. Instead of responding, she simply buried her head beneath the pillows, shoving her phone to the side as she fought valiantly against the rollicking butterflies that were threatening a reappearance of last night’s chardonnay.


End file.
